


almost heaven

by M0stlyVoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Happy Birthday Tacky!!, House magic, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Malfoy Manor, Minor Character Death, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Rituals, Sentient Magical House, Sex Magic, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco’s father dies. Harry’s house has a tantrum. When it turns out the two are related, Harry has to decide how far he’s willing to go to set his home to rights.And when Malfoy ends up looking likethat,Harry finds he’s willing to go a lot farther than he ever thought he would.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 44
Kudos: 278





	almost heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> happiest of birthdays to darling tacky, who is one of the best people in the drarry fandom. thank you for being you!
> 
> 525,600 kisses to [maesterchill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill) and [shealwaysreads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader) for alpha/beta/everything.

“ _Incendio!_ Fuck _me,_ come the fuck on, _Incendio_ you absolute pile of _shit_!”

No matter how confidently Harry thrust his wand toward the fireplace, or how narrow his eyes got, the flames refused to do more than gutter limply before flopping back down to sulk among the coals.

Groaning, Harry snagged a matchbook from the mantel and one by one lit each match by hand, flicking them into the fireplace. Finally, enough of them caught the crumpled-up papers to start a proper blaze, and Harry Vanished the empty matchbook with a sigh. Briefly, he thought about calling Kreacher back from Hogwarts and asking him for more information, but he dismissed it almost immediately—after last night, he didn’t think he wanted to risk seeing the elf.

Harry had lived at Twelve Grimmauld Place since the furor died down from the War, and he finally felt like he was ready to start living alone. He’d studied for his NEWTs remotely, wanting to avoid the press of attention returning to Hogwarts would have forced him to live through, and after he got his results back (tests administered at the Ministry, special dispensation from Minister Shacklebolt himself, he and Ron in disguise for the baffled proctors who had no idea why they were being paid overtime to oversee exams on a random Tuesday in April), he precipitated the second-biggest media storm he’d witnessed (the first, of course, being Voldemort’s death, and the third being when he and Ginny split up) by enrolling in a Muggle college to take business courses, which the press decided to interpret as a snub to the Ministry and _his duty to provide an example and continued protection to the Wizarding world at large_ (he’d enjoyed using that particular issue to practice his precision severing charms).

It may have seemed sudden or unprecedented to the public, but to Harry, it was obvious—after the War, after the death and the struggle and the starvation in the woods and the unending, grinding _fear_ that ached in the back of his teeth, that never let him sleep, why would he willingly sign up for more of that? What good would more violence bring him, even violence in pursuit of a noble cause?

Ron didn’t understand at first, but it only took a month of Auror training, which triggered three separate panic attacks, before he dropped out and joined George at Wheezes and proclaimed to any of the paparazzi that buzzed around him (George had great fun designing a ward that kept them ten feet from the shop entrance lest they be turned into houseflies) that Harry’d had the right idea all along, actually, and it was someone else’s turn to save the bloody world.

Hermione had gotten it straightaway, and helped him put together enough forged paperwork to get him into the London Business School, and so for two years he disappeared into the old warren of buildings at Regent’s Park, emerging back into Wizarding society at age 20 with a shiny new MBA in hand and a revitalisation proposal to refresh the still-struggling businesses in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade.

The next three years were busy, but rewarding—Harry had learned about investing, and modern business practices, and supply chain efficiency, and he steadily dragged the shop owners, complaining every step of the way, into new management styles. Eventually, the areas became so profitable that the Combined Only-Wizarding Business Alliance—London and Lochalsh (horrifyingly, COWBALLs—Harry had yet to convince them to reconsider the name) had to commission an architecture firm to add in more streets via wizarding space to accommodate all the new businesses that popped up.

Finally, Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade were thriving—busy, bustling places once more, filled with crowds and laughter and fascinating shops at every turn—and Harry?

Harry was a very, very rich man.

His instincts, which served him so very well during the War, adapted to business like a Bowtruckle to rowanwood. It turned out that his initial investment in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes hadn’t been a fluke; he had a nose for successful proposals, and his fingerprints were all over the most successful of the new businesses, and his name on the loan paperwork for the mainstays that were back in force.

Harry had barely slept these last three years, and spent more time in the rooms above the Leaky, or the posh new hotel in Hogsmeade (designed to appeal to the wealthier visiting parents, with rooms themed around their old dorms and common rooms, all in an effort to increase school donations), frequently working too late to even Floo without risking himself, let alone Apparate.

Now, though, his investments were humming along without him, and Harry was finally able to take a giant step back from hands-on day-to-day involvement and just check in periodically to ensure there had been no backsliding; as the Galleons poured into his vaults, he could finally get some sleep, and maybe apply some of that single-minded focus to his personal life.

He’d spent his first two free weeks wandering between the kitchen, the bathroom, and his chosen bedroom in his pants, subsisting on Floo-delivery food and finally catching up on thirty-six months of missed sleep. Kreacher was enjoying (?) his quasi-retirement at Hogwarts, and was by all accounts in his element bossing around the house-elves in the kitchen, so Harry was on his own for food and overall housekeeping.

Eventually, Hermione came over and tutted over the state of his bedroom enough that Harry finally got himself back onto a regular routine—he did the dishwashing spells every night, and cast lazily at the dust bunnies from the depths of his sofa once a week (usually with a gin in hand), and...well, he still got a lot of takeaways, but a man couldn’t be expected to have _no_ bad habits, surely?

He also started eyeing the space in his godfather’s ancestral home, considering the layout and the room flow and the colour schemes. He spent a lot of time in Muggle paint shops, bringing home rainbows of test cards and spreading them all over the vast kitchen table, arranging and re-arranging as he pondered how he’d like his home to look. He had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to do with the second floor, where he’d decided the master suite would go, so one weekend he hauled in dust sheets and scrapers and wood stain and buckets of his chosen wall colours, and moved all the furniture up to the relatively empty third floor, and stood in the hallway, wand out as he considered where to start with wall removal. Easy peasy, the remodelling book he’d ordered assured him. The work of an hour, two at the maximum.

Four hours later, Harry was covered in sweat and dust, hair standing on end, and only _one_ wall was gone.

Groaning, he slumped down to the sitting room and Summoned the drinks trolley over with a flick of his wrist. His wand felt clammy and… _thin,_ almost, like if he looked at it under a bright enough light he’d be able to see through it, so he thought it best to give it a rest for a while.

Harry rolled his neck and hissed as something in his shoulder twinged. He grabbed some ice and a napkin from the cart, putting together a makeshift cold pack and settling it onto his shoulder before pouring himself a large whiskey and settling back into the sofa to think.

It’s not like he _hadn’t_ noticed that something was different about Grimmauld Place these days; it would be hard not to, what with Walburga Black’s portrait now totally silent. He’d chalked that up to the end of the War, thinking that perhaps the shock of the loss of the family legacy had struck her dumb, but now that he was actually trying to _do_ something with this magical home he’d inherited, it was harder for Harry to deny that something was seriously wrong.

The house no longer felt oppressive like it had when Sirius was alive, or malevolent like it had during those first hopeless days of the Horcrux hunt. It just felt...dead. Harry had at first thought that was better, because who _wants_ a house that actively feels like it hated them, even if Hermione insisted that was impossible? He was glad the portrait no longer screamed (or talked at all), and that the house-elf eyes didn’t seem to follow him as he walked up the stairs, and that he no longer felt a malignant presence behind him in the halls.

Harry _should_ be glad that Grimmauld had apparently reverted to being...just a house, albeit one with a questionable decorating scheme and far too many shadowy corners to be fully comfortable.

The problem was, it didn’t feel like _just a house_. It felt, literally, dead—like something used to be there, but wasn’t anymore. It was the same unsettling feeling Harry got in the War when he encountered a corpse; like if he watched for just a bit longer the eyes would blink, and the chest would move with breath, and it would have just been a joke or a misunderstanding, but instead you stared and stared and stared and it didn’t move, because it couldn’t any longer.

That’s what the house felt like. And the more Harry thought about it, the more it disturbed him—the absence in the house, once he noticed it, was impossible to ignore again. He threw himself into his renovations, hoping that eventually the house would perk back up and start cooperating with his efforts, but there was always a lingering sense in the back of his mind that something was very wrong.

One night, after a hard day of labour trying to expand the bathroom sent him to bed early, exhausted and aching all over, Harry was forced awake by—well, the best way to describe it was that Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was absolutely _losing its shit_.

Lights were flashing on and off, from the old lamps Harry never even bothered to turn on any longer, favouring instead a modified _Lumos_ he’d learned at uni that let him adjust the tone and brightness to his specifications. There was a horrible high-pitched wail that was just barely within the range of noises audible to the human ear, and fuck, was Harry’s nose bleeding? He clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to block the noise out and stared in horror at his bedroom walls, which looked like they were desperately panting for breath.

On instinct, Harry dashed into the formal parlour; he’d piled up the majority of the old furniture and family heirlooms in here, and it was also where the Black family tapestry was located. He barely glanced at it when he made trips into this room these days, but now it was unavoidable—the family threads were burning silver, and the room smelled of ash, and it was so bright that Harry had to close his eyes against the glare. Even with his head turned away, the outline of the Black family tree was superimposed on his eyelids, burnt into his vision.

He stumbled down to the main sitting room with the vague thought of getting to the Floo and getting _out_ of here, but—

“Kreacher?” Harry said, having to shout to be heard over the house— _weeping,_ now, it sounded like it was crying, but nothing human cried like that.

Kreacher didn’t respond. He stood there, a shadow in the middle in the room, and Harry realised he’d left his wand in the bedroom, and as he stared at Kreacher’s frozen silhouette, that felt like a grievous mistake.

Then, almost as suddenly as it had started, it all just—stopped. The lamps went out, the candles flickered back to their normal overnight low flame, the walls stilled, and the only sounds Harry could hear were the normal old-house creaks.

“What the fuck?” Harry demanded of Kreacher, who still stood unmoving, but somehow diminished and no longer threatening. “What _happened_? What _was_ that? Why are you here?”

“Nothing, Master Harry,” Kreacher said, voice dreamy, eyes unfocused. “All is well now. Go back to bed.”

After a few minutes, when it was clear Kreacher was neither going anywhere for now, nor saying anything else, Harry did—he couldn’t think of anything else to do. On his way back up to his bedroom, he glanced into the parlour; the tapestry was still there, utterly undamaged despite what Harry _knew_ he'd smelled and seen earlier.

He didn’t remember his dreams that night.

The next morning, Kreacher was nowhere to be found, and Harry found himself crumpling that day’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_ into his pocket before attempting to light a fire and Floo over to Ron and Hermione’s.

Once he’d gotten the fire to light (and was he ever grateful he’d never thrown away that matchbook), he stepped through the fireplace to Ron and Hermione’s cottage without bothering to send word—they had a late fry-up on Sundays, and he had an open invitation, provided he didn’t arrive before 10:30AM (and he’d only made the mistake of coming over early _once_ ).

Sure enough, Ron was in the kitchen, while Hermione was setting the table. “Oh, Harry!” she said, smiling and waving her wand to Summon an extra set of dishware. “We weren’t sure we’d see you today—you seemed so tired yesterday after working on the bathroom. In fact…” Once the places were set, she rounded the table and approached him, getting up on her toes to look more closely at his face. “You’re _exhausted,_ Harry. Please don’t tell me you kept working after you called us? You just started having a normal schedule; you can’t go back to how you were before, you know, you’ll end up sick!”

Harry shook his head fervently. “No, I didn’t. I went to bed almost right away. It’s just...something happened with the house overnight, and then I woke up and saw this, and…” He pulled the _Prophet_ out of his pocket and moved to the table, smoothing it out in the centre. “I don’t know. Something told me what happened last night was somehow connected to this, and I just...as soon as I was able to get the fire to light, I came here.” He shrugged sheepishly. “It’s probably nothing, really, but…”

 **LUCIUS MALFOY MURDERED—DRACO MALFOY’S INHERITANCE CEREMONY COMPLETED AT THREE IN THE MORNING** screamed the day’s headline.

“Oh my,” Hermione breathed, then pushed Harry into his seat. “Well, let’s eat, and then the three of us can take a look, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

After breakfast, Ron and Hermione huddled around their own copy of the paper, and it was silent for a while as all three of them skimmed the article.

Lucius Malfoy had been killed in the middle of Diagon Alley just after two in the morning. It had been loud enough to attract a crowd almost immediately, and the paper’s weasel words curdled Harry’s stomach—he didn’t want to picture what had probably happened. Nobody had been apprehended yet, but with the amount of magical residue on the scene and the— _defensive wounds_ Lucius had, it was only a matter of time.

Harry swallowed and closed his eyes. _This_ was why he never went into Auror training.

Casting about for a distraction, he focused on a paragraph in the middle of the article. “Malfoy couldn’t even wait a day for whatever this inheritance ceremony is, huh? I always knew he was cold, but this seems low even for him. I mean, Lucius was his _father,_ and he gave him, what, forty-five whole minutes before grabbing up all the money for himself?”

Hermione frowned as she reached the end of the article, but Ron just looked at Harry oddly. “Well, he couldn’t wait, could he? The house would have been losing its bloody mind, wouldn’t it?”

Harry went still, and Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, clearly putting something together in her mind. “What do you mean, the house would have been losing its mind?” Harry wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know.

“Well,” Ron started, leaning forward. “Lucius was the head of the Malfoy family, right, and when the patriarch of a family like that dies, the magic demands that a new head be recognised as soon as possible, otherwise all the old magic that’s bound up in the foundations of the seat of the family starts to revolt. The house-elves get dangerous, and the magic suddenly views everyone as a threat and starts kicking anyone it perceives as an intruder out—Hermione, I’m surprised you don’t know all of this, it was pretty common before the Floo and anyone who couldn’t Apparate had to fly back, or get a Portkey, and meanwhile the house would just be absolutely throwing a fit until the heir could get back and take the oath. There were a fair amount of deaths from it for a while.”

Hermione looked affronted, and Harry hid a smile despite the uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Well, it’s not like it’s something that would have come up at Hogwarts, is it? Where would I have read that? I’ve been saying for _years_ that Hogwarts really needs some sort of integration course for Muggleborns—it’s negligence, plain and simple, that there are things like this that are considered _common knowledge_ but forty percent of the Wizarding population has no idea…!”

Ron placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re right, love,” he said soothingly, cutting a quick glance in Harry’s direction. “And I’ve been telling _you_ that you should write to McGonagall about it—she’d agree with you, you know it, and she’d be able to get the board to agree to fund it.”

Hermione subsided, and Harry took their lack of attention on him to look over the rest of the article.

“Wait—it says here that Malfoy also has gained control over the ancestral Black properties—how can that be right? Narcissa is still alive, why wouldn’t they have been hers from the start?” Harry wondered out loud, resolutely not thinking about the fact that Grimmauld Place is _also_ an ancestral Black property—surely since Sirius willed it to him it’s not included?

The voice of reason in the back of his head pointed out that _clearly,_ since his home threw its _own_ fit last night, it _was_ included.

“Ah,” Ron said casually, reaching for another piece of toast. “Well, she got married, didn’t she? Once that contract was signed and her name was changed, none of those were hers any more—any claim she had over those properties would have transferred to Lucius, so once there were no more Blacks left, the magic would have recognised him as the head of the family.

“Wait—” Hermione interjected, brows furrowed together. “You’re telling me that Narcissa willingly entered into some sort of barbaric, regressive, _misogynistic_ marriage contract that took all her agency away? The Black family was just as prestigious as the Malfoys were—why would she have ever allowed that? Surely she’s too proud?”

Harry was distracted from his own growing fears by a sense of danger at Hermione’s tone, one which Ron did not seem to share if his response was any indicator.

“She didn’t have a choice, did she? These ownership changes, they come from magic itself—it might all get written out on paper, sure, but magic doesn’t always recognise legal documents like that.”

“So,” Hermione said quietly, staring her fiancé down. “You’re telling me, if I change my name, everything I own will technically be yours?”

Ron suddenly seemed to recognise the turn this conversation had taken, but instead of backing off like Harry would have, he doubled down. “Well, it’s not likely to _matter,_ Hermione, as _you_ don’t have a magical house to inherit and _I’m_ the sixth son, it’s all going to Bill, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the _point,_ Ronald! That’s it—I’m _not_ changing my name! I’m my own person!”

“Well, that’s all well and good, but it’s not like you’ll have a choice with how the Ministry registers marriages, will you? All of that happens on its own!” Ron said belligerently. Harry winced.

“It does _WHAT??_ Hermione shrieked, and they were off.

Harry sat quietly while they argued. The magic theory was interesting to be sure, but he couldn’t help but worry about what this meant for his home.

Grimmauld didn’t do anything spectacular for the next few days, but neither did it cooperate with Harry’s remodel attempts—after a few half-hearted and unsuccessful efforts to move the shower from one wall to the other, he gave up.

Part of him was waiting to see what was going to happen next.

The house felt like it was waiting, too.

On Thursday, the _Prophet_ was thicker than normal, and when Harry opened it at breakfast, a special section with the Malfoy crest emblazoned at the top fell into his French toast.

“Bugger,” Harry muttered, plucking it out and spelling it clean. The cover was still slightly sticky. Bloody Malfoy.

Harry flipped through the pamphlet, skimming the paragraphs. It seemed to be a whole lot of unnecessary words that essentially boiled down to Malfoy declaring that, as almost all of the Black properties had been sold off while Sirius was in prison, Malfoy was formally relinquishing his claim over any occupied buildings, and his solicitors would contact the owner of each property to facilitate any rituals or paperwork required to complete this rite.

There was a note on the last page that Harry had to read through four times before he understood what it was saying—clearly the solicitors had written this statement, as Harry couldn’t remember even Malfoy being _this_ obtuse. Essentially, the Malfoy estate was asking for information on the location of Twelve Grimmauld Place, although it didn’t name it as such—the request was for the seat of the Black family, whose location in the ledgers was utter gibberish, and there was an air of urgency about the paragraph that had Harry frowning.

Grimmauld Place had been under some form of Fidelius since the First Voldemort War, so it made sense that it wasn’t discoverable. But Harry had ensured that Sirius’ will was gone through with a fine-tooth comb after the War—it was airtight, and Grimmauld was incontestably _his_ property. It didn’t matter what Malfoy and his fleet of lawyers thought.

So why, then, the fuss when Lucius died? Why did Harry feel constantly on edge when he was home, as if the house were holding its breath?

That night, Harry dreamed of Draco Malfoy.

It was just for a moment—just a blip in his nighttime brain activity—Malfoy was standing in front of what must have once been a grand mural wall inside what looked like a ballroom, but was now a burned, scarred-looking shell, pointing his wand at it repeatedly and clearly shouting. Harry couldn’t hear what Malfoy was saying—couldn’t hear anything, it was like watching television on mute—but Malfoy’s frustration was evident, as was the moment he gave up and sank to the floor and stared blankly into nothing.

Harry woke up the next morning unsettled, but dismissed it as an anomaly brought on by an excess of press coverage and assumed it wouldn’t happen again.

He was wrong.

Each night, he dreamed of Malfoy; each night, the dreams got more and more elaborate, and lasted longer, and he could hear them now, too.

Harry dreamed of Malfoy up at night at the Manor, pacing the halls, a dark look on his face. He dreamed of him kneeling in front of the Floo, pleading with what could only be Narcissa to come back, please Mother, come back to England, I need your _help,_ I don’t know how to fix it, I don’t know where it is. He dreamed of him twisting restlessly in his sleep, clearly plagued by nightmares, occasionally waking with a shout.

Harry dreamed of him crying as he stood in a study and faced down a portrait of Lucius. That one woke Harry in tears, too.

Harry didn’t know why he hadn’t said anything to Hermione yet, or hell, reached directly out to Malfoy. There was no doubt in his mind that these weren’t just dreams—there was a shine of too-much-reality around them, like he was there in the room with Malfoy. Plus, Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy in years; there was no way his unconscious mind could have come up with how tall he was, or the soft curls in his hair when he ran his hand through it too many times, or the hard line of his jaw that squared off the pointiness of his youth.

In short, Harry had no reason to imagine Malfoy anywhere _near_ as attractive as he apparently was these days.

Harry was grateful none of this happened while he was still busy with the COWBALLs (ugh) rebuild work—he woke each morning feeling utterly unrested and found himself needing a long midday nap just to get through the day without passing out mid-task.

It was after one of these naps that Harry woke up to his study replaced with a room clearly at the Ministry, surrounded by members of the Wizengamot in full regalia. He almost fell off the sofa, but realised that if he squinted he could still see the furniture he’d moved in here before his nap—the desk in the corner, the bookshelf against the far wall.

Well, then. This was a bit beyond glimpses into Malfoy’s nighttime wanderings in his dreams.

He sat up a bit when Malfoy strode into view, clearly through some off-screen door. He was in formal robes, the kind that cut off at the elbow so one’s wand holster was clearly visible ( _ostentatious_ Ron called the style, and while Harry agreed outwardly, he was never one to turn down the view it gave him of strong forearms in a tight-sleeved shirt, with leather straps encasing one of them), but while the Wizengamot was all in dark purple, Malfoy’s robes were a shiny dark grey, and also were missing the elaborate hemwork and embroidery.

Malfoy’s hair was slicked back in a way that threw Harry directly back to Hogwarts, and his eyes glittered in the low light of the room as he glanced around. He had a sneer affixed to his face, but as Harry examined Malfoy’s face, he couldn’t help but think it wasn’t quite genuine—that this was a mask, keeping the world at a distance from Malfoy’s vulnerabilities and protecting his reputation.

It seemed to be working—the cloaked Wizengamot members shuffled amongst themselves as Malfoy glanced around the room, looking for all the world like he barely wanted to be there and had _much_ better things to do.

Finally, the figure that could only be the Chief Warlock stepped forward. “Draco Malfoy,” they said, voice Charmed to fill the room and obscure their gender (although Harry failed to see the point, as the identity of the Chief Warlock was public knowledge; he thought it might be one of Neville’s distant uncles these days?), “the Wizengamot has invited you here this day to assume your seat on this Court, in recognition of your ascendancy to Head of your Family in the wake of Lucius Malfoy’s demise. Are you prepared to accept this seat, and all the responsibilities it entails?” The Chief Warlock extended their arm upwards slightly and summoned their wand from its holster, prompting the rest of the Wizengamot to mimic the gesture. A light began to swirl up from the upraised wands.

Malfoy examined his nails. “Oh, I suppose so,” he responded in a bored tone, not glancing away from his hands even as the light coalesced over his head. His facade dropped, though, when it fell down atop him and flashed brightly once before disappearing, leaving him blinking and now clad in the same dark purple robes as the rest of the room.

Harry pushed himself to his feet as the vision started to flicker and finally disappeared, leaving his living room exactly as he’d left it before his nap—except for the fact that the wallpaper was now a dark emerald striped with light grey.

“What the fuck,” Harry muttered, turning in a circle in place as he stared at his walls. He didn’t _hate_ it, per se, but—he’d been fighting with his house for _weeks_ now to change the walls, and it turned out that all it took was some manifestation of _Draco Malfoy_ to make a difference, even if it _did_ turn his study into a hideously Slytherin-themed lair?

This was just not on.

Much like the dreams had, the visions only increased in number, and Harry found himself confronted by Draco Malfoy’s apparition around every corner. He went into the kitchen and found Draco sitting at the far end of his table, poring over various ledgers and documents, occasionally pushing a pair of glasses ( _glasses!_ ) up his nose as he frowned. He turned back from his drinks trolley after a long day of Floo meetings to Malfoy leaning against the wall near a window, smoking and staring out into the sunset. He glanced into the tapestry room on instinct as he passed by and there was Malfoy, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as if he were crying.

He came out of the bathroom after a shower into _his own bloody bedroom,_ for crying out loud, to find Malfoy tangled up with Blaise Zabini on the bed, the both of them utterly naked and making entirely too much noise for eleven in the morning.

Harry had turned around and gone right back into the bathroom at that one, and sat on the edge of the bath in just his towel until the humidity from his shower had entirely disappeared and he was beginning to shiver before he dared to look back in.

And meanwhile, all around him, Grimmauld Place was manifesting furniture and decor, none of which Harry liked at all but which seemed to be exactly to Malfoy’s tastes based on the glimpses he’d had of the Manor.

Despite all of this, Harry still hung on to his denial; there was no chance Malfoy had any claim over the home Sirius had left to him, this was all just a big coincidence, and things would go back to normal soon. Surely. Eventually.

He finally had to confront reality one evening, though, when he snapped out of his semi-doze in front of the fire to a heated conversation between Malfoy and what could only be one of his solicitors.

“—rry, Mr Malfoy, but this is simply the reality of the situation! The Manor will continue to— _act up,_ as you put it, until the issue is resolved. Without a formal claiming or relinquishing, the Malfoy and Black magics will continue to war over which takes primacy, and both buildings will continue to malfunction.” The solicitor was sweating.

Malfoy stood and paced, running his hand through his hair. “Bollocks. There has to be a way around it. It’s been weeks and nobody’s come forward—for all we know the bloody thing is _burnt to the ground,_ and even if it isn’t, it’s been missing for _decades_ now and there were never problems before! There must be something you’ve overlooked, some clause that can be invoked, some other reason why _my bloody house is trying to have me removed_!” His voice raised to a shout at the end.

The solicitor cringed, but held his ground. “I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy. There’s nothing else to be done. The Black estate _must_ be located, or the situation will continue to devolve. Surely your mother—?”

Malfoy deflated at that, and sat abruptly back on his sofa. “No,” he replied, voice flat and eyes distant. “No, unfortunately Narcissa will not be able to assist in this matter.”

The scene faded away just as the solicitor started to respond, and Harry stared into the fire.

There was nothing for it, then. His biggest fear had just been confirmed—some sort of old magic was at play, and Grimmauld Place was reaching out to Malfoy, and that’s why nothing worked when Harry tried to make changes.

Sighing, he stood and made his way to his desk. It seemed that this letter was long overdue.

Malfoy’s solicitor firm got back to him first thing the next morning asking for a meeting later that same day, which didn’t surprise Harry one bit. He had no doubt that they were desperate to put the entire situation to bed.

He agreed to the proposed time, then went to check one more thing off his to-do list by firecalling Hermione.

She listened as he haltingly explained what had been going on over the last few weeks, eyebrows going higher and higher with each shared detail, and when he finally stuttered to a stop she sighed gustily.

“You really should have told me right away,” she scolded, and Harry could picture her crossing her arms even though all he could see was her head bobbing in the flames.

“I know,” he said meekly. “I just...didn’t want it to be true. I don’t— As much of a pain in the arse as this house is, it’s _my_ house, and it was Sirius’, and now that it’s actually sort of—waking up a bit, I can see how great it could be if it would just _cooperate,_ and I don’t want…” He trailed off and ducked his head.

“You don’t want your home taken away,” Hermione finished for him, voice much more sympathetic. “I understand, Harry, really I do—but the truth of the matter is, you were never going to be able to keep your head in the sand over this. Even if Lucius Malfoy had lived forever, Grimmauld was never going to cooperate with you, not without the proper rituals. Now, do you want me to come to the meeting with you? I’m sure Malfoy’s solicitors have the situation well in hand, and it will be a simple signatory ceremony acknowledging Sirius’ will and you as the rightful owner, but I’m happy to come along if you’d like.”

Harry nodded gratefully and met her eyes again. “Please. Yes. If the Ministry can spare you for the afternoon, I would really love to have you there with me.”

“Consider it done,” Hermione said briskly. “I’ll come round in an hour and we can have lunch before we head over. This will be wrapped up by dinner, and you’ll be kicking yourself for not taking care of this weeks ago—you’ll see.”

_Famous last words,_ Harry couldn’t help but think a few hours later as he sat in his chair at the firm of Fernsby, Relish, and Hickenlooper and listened to Hermione and the same solicitor he’d seen in Malfoy’s sitting room last night shout at each other.

It turned out that it was _not_ a simple matter of signing the proper paperwork with the proper amount of pomp and circumstance, and frankly, Harry should have known better than to expect this would be easily wrapped up.

Malfoy had greeted them both hesitantly, and Harry had seen the hope in his eyes as they all gathered around the table, Harry placing Sirius’ will alongside the Black family ledgers for the solicitors to review. 

He and Malfoy had alternated glancing at each other from across the table after Harry recounted what had been going on over the last few weeks. He played off that he didn’t read the _Prophet_ any longer and thus had missed the announcement, which the solicitors accepted blandly, but Malfoy clearly didn’t buy it if his narrowed eyes were any indication.

It had been a truly awkward half-hour of silence, which even Hermione gave up trying to fill after the first few aborted conversation attempts, until one of the solicitors cleared his throat and stood, fingers gripping the edge of the table.

Apparently, Sirius’ formalisation of Harry as his heir in a magical will had, to put it plainly, bollocksed everything up. If Harry had just been squatting at Grimmauld, or he’d purchased it with a standard deed contract, this would be a simple matter of the signatory ritual Hermione mentioned. However, as usual, nothing went easily for Harry.

Twelve Grimmauld Place had been in a limbo state, the solicitors explained—rare, but not unheard-of. With its rightful recognised owner imprisoned and then dead, the magic flowed through to Lucius via Narcissa—but since the house had been hidden, while the contract transferred ownership, the claiming ceremony never took place, leaving the estate in a state of suspension. When Lucius died, it was apparently the last straw for the magic—one unusual transfer it could tolerate, but a second owner with no ceremony performed stretched the bounds of what it was able to accommodate, and now it was reaching out with everything it had to pull Malfoy in to complete the ownership ceremony. That explained why it reacted to Lucius’ death, and why it was spontaneously manifesting wallpaper and knick-knacks that were to Malfoy’s taste.

Unfortunately, the will complicated matters. If Sirius hadn’t invoked familial magic to pass his belongings on to Harry, everything could have been resolved neatly in the office; now, though, the house was caught between two magical contracts and two equally viable owners, and while it was clear it preferred Malfoy simply due to the age of the contract involved there, it could be reallocated to Harry without long-term consequences.

The reason for all the shouting, though, was the _nature_ of the ritual required to transfer ownership.

“It’s barbaric!” Hermione shouted, eyes wild. “It’s archaic. It’s _nonconsensual_. I cannot _believe_ that you are suggesting, to _Harry Potter_ of all people, that an absurd mockery of a _wedding night ritual_ must be performed in order for him to take ownership of _his own home_!”

“Ms Granger,” the solicitor blustered, rearing back. “I _assure_ you, we have no intention of...of _mishandling_ Mr Potter, or of tricking him! It wouldn’t be a _real_ wedding or marriage, after all—there would be strict steps to ensure no permanent union was formed! There is simply no way around what needs to be done to resolve this unfortunate situation!”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry put a hand on her forearm. “‘Mione, it’s ok,” he said with a sigh, meeting Malfoy’s eyes across the table. “They’ve no reason to lie, do they? Look—why don’t you go look into it to confirm what they’re saying if it makes you feel better, and we’ll all meet at Grimmauld in—three days?” He glanced at the solicitors and Malfoy to confirm this was acceptable. “Three days, then, and you bring what you’ve found, and if there are changes you can suggest, that would be brilliant—but if not, it is what it is. It has to be done, after all.”

Hermione deflated and turned to look at Harry. “It’s bloody _bollocks,_ ” she growled. “Bloody outdated inheritance magic, _why_ the Ministry hasn’t contracted Mysteries to bring us into the bloody _twentieth century_ is an absolute outrage; I will _absolutely_ have some suggestions when we meet next.” With that, she flounced from the room.

There was silence for a moment before Malfoy broke it with a wry chuckle. “Well, she hasn’t changed, has she?”

Harry glanced up sharply, ready to defend his friend, but all he saw in Malfoy’s face was impressed amusement and a soft smile playing at his mouth. Harry nodded slowly and returned the grin, noting with amusement the flush that spread over Malfoy’s face. “No, she hasn’t,” he replied, getting to his feet. “Malfoy, could I have a word in private before we break this up?”

Malfoy glanced at the solicitors and nodded sharply, sending them all fleeing from the room with murmured farewells. Harry awkwardly sat back down—he’d been expecting to have to go out in the hallway, but it was clear who ruled the roost around here.

Arching an eyebrow, Malfoy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. It might have looked casual, but Harry had been observing him for weeks now—he knew it was defensive. “Well, Potter? Did you actually wish to discuss something, or shall we sit in excruciating silence for even longer? I’m sure _that_ will certainly assist us in the required… _actions_ to restore your home,” Malfoy said snidely.

Harry, to as much Malfoy’s surprise as his own, chuckled. “For once, Malfoy, you’ve got it right. This is bad enough, and it’ll only be worse if we’re both on edge and snappish the entire time. Look—I just wanted to apologise, for the...rather unsolicited invasion of privacy. There wasn’t really anything I could do about it, and I did my best to avoid more _sensitive_ moments, but I should have realised sooner that something was amiss and gotten in contact.”

“Oh, come off it, Potter, we both know that little spiel about you no longer taking the _Prophet_ and missing the announcement was utter shite,” Malfoy returned. “Not that I can say I blame you overmuch for waiting, I’m sure you were...wait, _sensitive_ moments. What exactly do you mean by that?”

Harry winced. “Er. One day I walked into my room and found you… _entertaining_ Zabini. I turned around and left right away!” he added hastily as Malfoy’s face turned bright red. “I swear! Seconds later, not even a full minute, as soon as I realised what I was looking at, I left! I didn’t need to...it wouldn’t have been right of me, to watch that.” He realised his error a moment too late, and silence rang in the room.

“...right,” Malfoy said slowly, pinning him with a gaze. “It wouldn’t have been _right_ of you to watch me get sucked off by Blaise. Not that it wasn’t something you wanted to see, or you were horrified, or appalled. But it would have been wrong, and _that’s_ why you left.”

Harry sighed and gave up on trying to dissemble further. “Yes, that’s about right, Malfoy. Congratulations, you’ve figured me out—I like men, too. Don’t go running off to the papers, yeah? I’m not exactly keen on doubling the amount of fan mail I get, thanks ever so.”

Malfoy chuckled, and his posture was suddenly much more relaxed. “I’d rather not have this upcoming little interlude published myself, so no worries on that front. Well, well. I have to say, I did _not_ see this coming, but it certainly makes this whole situation a bit less fraught, yes?”

Harry couldn’t hold back his bark of laughter at that. “Right—thank god that instead of having to engage in ritual sex magic with my school nemesis in an attempt to mimic the transfer of property on a wedding night so I can get my own bloody house back in order while _straight,_ we can go into it knowing neither of us objects on principle to cock. _Much_ easier, Malfoy, you’ve really set me at ease.”

When Malfoy laughed at that, Harry noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his stomach did a little _swoosh_. All joking aside, this certainly wasn’t the absolute _worst_ outcome he’d ever experienced.

Three days later, Hermione and Harry waited in the receiving parlour for Malfoy and his solicitor, tea and canapés laid out on the coffee table between the two long sofas near the back of the room, opposite the Floo. Hermione had raised an eyebrow at the elaborate setup when she came through, but Harry had been nervous all morning, and sometimes that manifested itself in baking.

They’d chatted while they waited, though Harry couldn’t say what exactly they spoke of—his mind was a million miles away, and luckily Hermione realised this and kept the topic light, even though he could tell she was dying to get into what she’d discovered.

Harry’s Floo flared exactly at the top of the hour, and he sat up straighter as Malfoy and the same solicitor from the other day stepped out of the fireplace. Malfoy glanced around the room as he approached Harry and Hermione, clearly noting the stylized wyverns patterned along the crown moulding and the overall theme of green and silver.

As Malfoy crossed over to them, Harry was astonished to see the candles burn brighter in his wake, and before he was able to take a seat on the sofa opposite them, it gave a shiver and produced half a dozen throw pillows, all significantly more plush than what Harry’d been able to conjure himself. The sofa itself also appeared to be in much better repair than the one Harry and Hermione were on, and Harry scowled as Malfoy sank into the cushion with a sigh. Malfoy caught his expression and smirked. “Jealous, Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione cut him off as Malfoy’s solicitor took a seat. Before anyone else could say a word, she floated a file to each of them. “Thank you for coming,” she began, and Harry smothered a chuckle—Hermione tended to take over any group she was involved in, up to and including welcoming people into a house that was not hers. Malfoy met his eyes and flickered a smile in his direction. “Harry, Malfoy, unfortunately I was unable to find any way around the necessity of a more elaborate ritual in order to properly transfer the house’s ownership. However, if you’ll take a look at the first page, I _was_ able to find precedent—in the mid-1700s there was a situation where a family home was displaying dual ownership, to a set of half-siblings actually. They found out—”

Malfoy, who had flipped ahead to the third page (past what was apparently Hermione’s summation of the precedent she discovered; Harry loved her dearly, but he could never accuse her of being succinct), held up a hand. “Pardon, Granger. Am I reading correctly that in order to circumvent the wedding night ritual, we’d have to instead enter into a _bond_ for a period of four months?”

Harry whipped his head around to stare at Hermione, who shut her mouth with an audible _click_ of her teeth and refused to meet his eyes. “Well...yes. But it’s a very mild bond! Not a soul bond, barely even a mental one even, no physical contact required!”

Harry paged over to find where Malfoy was reading. “Hermione. We would have to _live together_ for _three weeks_. We would have to communicate mentally at least three times a day for the duration of the bond. And, does this say we need _fresh ashwinder scales_ for the ritual itself? I appreciate all the work you put into this, but surely this is _significantly_ more effort and danger than a simple wedding night ritual?”

Hermione wrung her hands. “Oh, I know, but—Harry, the modifications they’re suggesting are _completely_ untested, and it’s unethical besides! I couldn’t just— _sit there_ while you’re essentially _forced_ into sleeping with someone, just to get your own home back! It’s coercive! It’s manipulative! It’s forcing you into a—a _sexual encounter_ with someone you don’t even _like,_ in order to take control of your own property! It isn’t...I couldn’t…” She apparently ran out of steam after that.

There was a long, awkward silence until Malfoy spoke again, voice unexpectedly soft. “You dug into traditional Wizarding marriage contracts, didn’t you?” he enquired gently, placing the file off to the side and leaning forward. Harry suppressed the urge to gape—Draco Malfoy looking sympathetically at Hermione was the _last_ thing he’d ever expected.

“Yes!” Hermione wailed, hunching over herself. “They’re barbaric! It’s appalling, that nobody’s looked into this sooner—how are there _so many_ women who allow themselves to be yoked to these contracts? And there are _no_ provisions for same-sex unions, which is why what your solicitors are proposing is so dangerous, Malfoy! How has the Wizarding world simply allowed this to go on for so long? I can’t—”

Harry got it, then, and covered her hand with his. “Hermione,” he said softly. “It’s okay. It will _be_ okay. If you can’t—if you don’t— Ron will understand, you know. He’s not going to…” He trailed off helplessly, meeting eyes with Malfoy briefly. Malfoy shrugged and leaned back into the sofa, looking uncomfortable.

Silence fell again, and then Malfoy’s solicitor, who had this entire time been perched awkwardly at the edge of his cushion, cleared his throat. “Well. It would appear we are back to square one, then. Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, I am afraid that the only option we have to conclude this matter to the satisfaction of all—” Malfoy choked at that, and Harry felt himself turning pink, “—is to proceed with our proposal from earlier this week. As I had begun to explain, the ritual itself is fairly simple, and thanks to the dedicated magical theorists we employ at Fernsby, Relish, and Hickenlooper, we have introduced some simple modifications that will prevent the ritual from— _sticking,_ for lack of a better term. The sooner it can be performed, the better—the magic is growing more unstable by the hour, and it is our researchers’ opinion that if much more time passes, it’s likely to, er—combust.”

Hermione made a pained sound at that, and Harry patted her hand once more before turning to face Malfoy, whose face was ashen at this latest revelation. Harry himself was feeling fairly discomfited, too, but Malfoy’s reaction was even more extreme, and Harry felt a rush of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy, imagining one’s childhood home in such a state. “So. I mean. Tonight, Malfoy? Is that enough time to gather the, er—what precisely will be needed for this? I’m not sure we got that far.”

Malfoy recovered enough to roll his eyes. “All we’ll need are ropes, Potter, which the Manor has in plentiful supply. As I am familiar with the requirements, and you are not, I shall be selecting the colours, although if you have any significant objection when I bring them over it’s the work of just a moment to switch them out. Does eleven tonight suit?”

Harry felt his face get hot. _Ropes…?_ He realised everyone in the room had been staring at him while he drifted off down _that_ intriguing little train of thought, and nodded jerkily. “Yes. Er. Eleven tonight. Suits just fine. For you and your...ropes.” Malfoy bit his lip to stop himself from smiling, and Harry was sure he had turned redder.

They stared at each other until Hermione cleared her throat and not-so-gently stepped on Harry’s toes. “Well then, Harry, if you’re _really_ sure you want to go this route...there’s nothing else you need from me. Just...call over tomorrow when you’re awake, just so I know you’re alright?”

Harry smiled at her as they all stood and moved toward the Floo, which, he noted in annoyance, had been burning consistently this whole time, and hadn’t needed a single spell to rekindle it. Malfoy’s presence, no doubt. Merlin, he’d be glad to have this over with. “Of course, Hermione,” he said aloud, offering the bowl of Floo powder around. “You’ll be the first to hear everything about it.”

“Well...not _too_ much detail, please,” Hermione drawled, winking at him once before she stepped into the fire and called out her address.

Behind him, Malfoy choked out a laugh. “I had no idea Granger could be funny,” he mused, gesturing for his solicitor, whose expression was highly put-upon, to enter the Floo first. As they watched him spin away, Harry realised that he’d never even asked for the man’s name. The minute he stepped into the law firm, all his attention had been taken up by the man now standing in front of him, shifting from leg to leg.

Finally, Malfoy spoke. “Look, Potter...for what it’s worth, I am sorry about this. I know this isn’t...ideal, to put it mildly. I know that I’m not...well. That this, with me, is the last thing you’d have chosen, obviously. But if we don’t do something soon, we’re both going to lose our homes, and whatever happened at the Manor, it was my childhood home, and I can’t bear to lose it.”

Harry blinked. “I don’t know what you’re apologising for, Malfoy, this is hardly your doing—it’s nobody’s doing, in fact, just a bit of outdated magic working against us. And as for the rest of it…” He finally let his gaze drag up and down Malfoy’s frame, slowly, the way he’d wanted to ever since he first started seeing into Malfoy’s days and nights, all the quiet, intimate little moments he’d been privy to that had shown him an entirely different side to his childhood rival. “Well. I can’t say it had occurred to me prior to all of this, but the last thing I’d choose? Hardly.”

Malfoy, to Harry’s great pleasure, flushed a heated pink. Harry took an unconscious step closer; they were near enough now that their toes were touching, and he could feel Malfoy’s breath on his cheek, could tell when it began to speed up at the proximity. If he swayed forward just a bit they’d be chest-to-chest.

They looked at each other for a while, Malfoy’s gaze dark and assessing, Harry unable to tear his eyes away, until Malfoy finally broke the impasse by stepping back and reaching for the Floo powder. “I’ll see you in a few hours then, Potter—never fear, I won’t forget the _rope_ you were so interested in earlier.”

Before Harry could respond, Malfoy was gone, and Harry was left standing in his parlour, half-hard and wondering how in the hell he was supposed to make it through the rest of the evening.

Harry spent the afternoon and evening wandering aimlessly, doing his best to tidy—his home was the most amenable to his attempts that it had ever been, but his more complex charms still failed, and it still was producing Slytherin-themed trinkets on every available surface. Harry carefully collected the more valuable-looking ones to see if Malfoy might like to keep them, but the rest went into a box that bobbed along behind him as he came across them, to be disposed of once he could be certain they wouldn’t just come back.

Grimmauld Place had an air of anticipation about it like Harry had never experienced—it manifested an opulent, shining room off the receiving parlour, strewn with large, comfortable cushions and blankets, with a ring of candles hovering a few inches off the carpet in the center of the room, where there was enough space for two people to kneel with just about a foot in between them. Harry explored the cabinets along the walls, and from the overabundance of candles, crystals, and ceremonial daggers, concluded this was some sort of ritual room, hidden in the house until it sensed it was needed.

He shivered a bit as he stepped back out into the parlour, gently closing the door behind him. He still wasn’t used to a house just _knowing_ things like that, although he could admit it would be dead useful to have stuff he needed just appear. Hopefully he’d be able to get used to it.

Hopefully he’d have the _chance_ to get used to it.

After dinner, he took a brief nap, and for the first time in weeks he slept uninterrupted—perhaps Malfoy had been napping too, or maybe the magic sensed something had shifted and was giving him a reprieve. Either way, he woke at half nine and felt, finally, refreshed.

At a quarter to eleven, the Floo flared green and Malfoy stepped through, a cloth bag clutched in his hand. Harry sprung to his feet—he’d been sitting ramrod-straight on a chair picking at the loose threads in the cushions for the last fifteen minutes, growing increasingly anxious as the hour approached, and as he took in Malfoy’s white knuckles and the crinkle between his eyebrows, he was gratified to know he wasn’t the only one.

“Potter,” Malfoy nodded, taking in Harry’s loose joggers and tight white vest. Harry hadn’t been sure of the outfit etiquette for a ritual like this, and when he considered looking it up his stomach turned, so he went with his instincts that said that the more comfortable and easy to remove the better. He was gratified to see Malfoy had gone a similar route, although his bottoms appeared to be leggings—criminally _tight_ leggings, trust Malfoy to go the athleisure route—and his top was navy.

“Malfoy,” Harry returned, twisting his hands together briefly. “Do you, er. Would you like something to drink? Or would you prefer to, er, get on with it?” He gestured vaguely towards the shiny black door that had appeared after Malfoy left, the one that led to the ritual room.

Malfoy glanced at it, jaw ticking. “Water, if you don’t mind. We need to be sober for this. And before we… _proceed,_ I wanted to go over the ropes with you, and make sure you’re comfortable with the incantation. It’s short, but we have to get it exactly right.”

“Certainly,” Harry muttered, Summoning two glasses and filling them with an _Aguamenti_. He caught Malfoy glancing longingly towards the drinks trolley, which had begun to roll hopefully in their direction until Malfoy had declined its use for the evening and now appeared to be sulking in the corner.

They sat on opposite sofas, and Malfoy passed Harry a piece of paper with a short paragraph scrawled on it before he upended the bag onto the coffee table. A tangle of ropes—light blue, dark blue, lavender, grey—spilled out across the dark wood. Harry touched the nearest piece—the weave was soft, and the threads glimmered in the firelight. There was a slight sheen to the fibres, as if something reflective was woven in.

“You said the colours would mean something?” Harry asked softly, lowering his voice instinctively. The atmosphere in the room was hushed, suddenly, and the fire had gone down a bit.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, straightening the individual pieces so they lay flat. “The blues—trust, and truthfulness. The lavender, cleansing. And the grey—” his fingers danced over the coil of near-silver rope as he hesitated a moment. “The grey is for...respect. For humility. I stayed away from all the overtly romantic colours...these felt appropriate to the situation, and should hopefully aid in the modification we’re introducing.”

Harry stared down at the shining fabric, strangely touched by Malfoy’s selections. “Right. So we...how does this work, then? Are you going to be…” He swallowed hard. “Will you be tying me…?”

“No,” Malfoy interjected hastily, and oh, he was turning pink again. “Nothing like that. This is...well, it’s called handfasting, and it’s been part of traditional Wizarding marriage ceremonies in the UK for centuries now, if not longer. We’ll bring the ropes in, say our vows, and if the ritual is accepted, they’ll weave together and then bind our wrists loosely. We’ll say the last bit, the rope will fall off, and we’ll…” He trailed off at that, and he and Harry sat in silence, thinking about what would happen after.

Harry took a sip of his water. “Do we need to do anything...after? When we wake up, or…?”

Malfoy drained his glass in one nervous gulp, then sent it back to the drinks trolley with a wave of his hand. “No. That should...we shouldn’t have to take any further steps. The house should be fully yours come morning, although we’ll have to confirm if the modification actually worked, or if we’re…”

“If we’re married, for real,” Harry finished, when it became clear that Malfoy wasn’t going to.

“Right,” Malfoy said, staring at the ropes. “Right.”

They sat quietly for a moment as Harry finished his drink. He shifted a bit—he’d been _very thorough_ when he showered earlier, with the thought that a quick wank might make things easier once they got into it, and he’d gotten a bit carried away, and only had conditioner for lube because the stuff he Conjured wasn’t waterproof, and, well— He looked up to ask Malfoy if he was ready, and the words died away in his throat as he met Malfoy’s eyes, the grey completely swallowed up by pupil. He’d been rumbled, then, and his cock began to fill under the intensity of Malfoy’s gaze.

“We should begin,” Malfoy said, voice an octave lower than a moment ago. “Ideally, the ritual portion should be finished as close to midnight as possible in order to harness the power inherent in changing over to a new day, and it can sometimes take the ropes a while to braid themselves properly. Did you have any questions about what’s written on the paper? You don’t have to have it memorised.” When Harry shook his head mutely, Draco snatched up the grey and dark blue ropes, stood abruptly, and stalked to the black door, but Harry didn’t miss the way he adjusted his leggings. “Come in when you’re ready. Bring the other two colours in. Don’t wait too long—the magic begins to gather once I step inside.” With that, he disappeared into the ritual room.

Harry took a deep breath, centring himself and his magic for a moment, then stood and followed. The ropes were warm and felt almost alive in his hands, and the air in the parlour was oppressive.

As he stepped through the door into the ritual room, Harry was grateful to note that the air was much lighter in here, with an almost sweet smell. The door shut behind him with a final-sounding _bang,_ and Harry squared his shoulders before kneeling across from Malfoy, who was already inside the circle of candles.

As soon as Harry was in position and set the ropes down, the candles flared to life, and the ropes sprang up to dangle above their heads. Malfoy didn’t move, or look surprised, so apparently this was supposed to happen.

Malfoy took a deep breath and caught Harry’s eye from across the circle. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

Harry went to nod, but something compelled him to answer verbally. “Yes,” he said, and the candles burned even more brightly.

Malfoy pulled his paper out, then nodded at Harry. “You start.”

Harry lifted the parchment so he could read the cramped script, and began.

_”You cannot possess me, for I belong to myself  
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give until the morrow.  
You cannot command me, for I am a free person  
But the honeycomb tastes sweeter coming from my hand.”_

Draco picked up with the next section.

_”I pledge to you that it will be your eyes into which I smile tomorrow morning  
That yours will be the name I cry aloud into the night.  
I shall be a shield for your back, and you for mine  
For this is a marriage of equals.”_

The scent in the air was stronger, now, and drawing closer, and Harry felt the magic flickering along his veins, over his skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the ropes were undulating, beginning to twine together, but the motion was not seamless—that, then, was the reaction to the modifications they read aloud. He couldn’t identify what the changes were, but it appeared that they weren’t negatively impacting the outcome.

Malfoy set the paper down and extended his arms towards Harry, palms facing up. “I extend to you my troth, in dark blue for truthfulness, in grey for humility and respect.”

Harry repeated the gesture, hovering his hands palms-down over Malfoy’s. “I accept, and extend to you my troth, in light blue for trust, in lavender for cleansing and a healing of the spirit.”

They knelt as the ropes continued to braid themselves together over their heads. Harry felt frozen; he couldn’t even consider wrenching his gaze away from Malfoy’s. The world had narrowed down to their circle of light, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

Some indeterminate time later, the ropes gently floated down and loosely bound their wrists together. Harry instinctively grasped onto Malfoy’s hands, and where Malfoy’s fingers clutched his wrists burned. He gasped.

The ropes tightened just a bit, and Malfoy nodded once. “So mote it be,” they repeated in unison, and a bright light flashed across the room, causing Harry to squint.

As fast as it came, it was gone, and the candles flared once before returning to a normal level, and the ropes fell off to the ground, the braided circle somehow still intact, and Harry threw himself across the circle and clashed his mouth desperately into Malfoy’s, utterly out of control.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” he groaned, forcing Malfoy to shuffle backwards, out of the circle (somehow bypassing the candles) and back onto the plush cushions just beyond. “ _Fuck,_ Malfoy, I can’t believe—do you feel—?” The magic was roaring through him, burning gold through his veins, and his head felt drugged, but simultaneously clearer than it had ever been, and all he could think about was getting his hands on that body, his mouth on that neck. He was drowning in it, lost to the feeling, the tension he’d been feeling around Malfoy all evening amped up to an unbearable, undeniable need that he couldn’t hold back on any longer.

“Yes,” Malfoy gasped, yanking Harry’s shirt up and clawing down his back. Harry moaned at the sting and insinuated a hand between their bodies, getting his fingers hooked in the waistband and pulling Malfoy’s leggings down. “Yes, oh _fuck_ Potter, I feel it, _I feel it,_ get these bloody clothes off, will you?”

Harry snapped his fingers and they were both naked, and he laughed in relief at the feel of skin on skin, the rasp of Malfoy’s leg hair against the backs of his thighs, the thick hot line of Malfoy’s cock against his stomach. “Jesus, that’s good,” he moaned, pushing his hips forward and rubbing his prick against Malfoy’s hip. “God, you feel good against me.”

“Yesssss,” Malfoy hissed out, getting a hand in Harry’s hair and pulling just enough for Harry to feel the sting. “Fuck, Potter, like that— We should have— _yes,_ you’re so good—we should have discussed the logistics a bit ahead of time, yeah?”

Harry ran a hand along Malfoy’s side, revelling in the deep shiver that evoked. “I—I was hoping—” he gasped out, pulling back just a bit. “I was. In the shower earlier. I...I was hoping...I thought about you. In me. I want you to fuck me, Draco. I touched myself thinking about it, and…”

Malfoy growled and flipped them, pinning Harry’s wrists over his head with one hand. There was no grey left in his eye at all as he stared hungrily down at Harry. “ _Did_ you now, _Harry,_ ” he breathed, free hand snaking down until his fingers pressed directly behind Harry’s balls.

Harry whined and writhed. “Please, Draco,” he whimpered, pressing down, willing Malfoy’s hand to drop back just that extra inch.

“Your wish,” Malfoy murmured, and then his fingers were slick as they danced along Harry’s bollocks, and one finger, then two pressed inside, sliding in easily, unerringly finding the spot that made Harry shout and arch his back. “My, my, you _were_ eager earlier.”

“Please,” Harry moaned, twisting his wrists in Malfoy’s grasp. “I’m ready, I want it, I _need_ it, let me have it, please Draco, I want to _feel_ it…”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Malfoy groaned, and his fingers slipped out, replaced almost instantly by the blunt head of his cock.

Harry slammed his head back onto a pillow as Malfoy pushed in, inexorably and without pause, not giving Harry time to adjust or relax, until he was fully sheathed in Harry’s body, and Harry swore he could feel Malfoy in his _throat_.

Malfoy released his wrists, then bent down until their foreheads were touching. “So bloody gorgeous, Harry,” he crooned, tangling his hand back in Harry’s curls. “So _good._ Keep talking, Harry, I want to hear what I’m doing to you,” and he pulled out and _slammed_ back in, and Harry lost control of his own breath.

“Oh fuck,” he cried, tilting his hips just so until Malfoy passed over his prostate with every thrust. “Fucking _hell,_ Draco, you feel...you’re so _big,_ bloody _fuck_ I can practically taste it. God, Draco, don’t stop, don’t _stop_ …”

Harry lost track of time, then. Lost track of everything except the sharp pull of Draco’s hand in his hair, the bite of Draco’s mouth on his neck drawing bruises to the surface, the shocking gentleness of Draco’s other hand holding his own when Draco switched to a long, gentle rocking motion that had them both howling their near-simultaneous completion. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours—the magic had been so thick in the air that Harry felt like he was floating somewhere outside of space, somewhere the ritual had created.

Somewhere he’d have to give up, come morning.

Draco pulled out of him with a groan and flopped face-first on the pillow next to him. They lay there together, breathing quietly, until Draco waved a hand, and Harry felt the gentle rush of a cleaning spell in and over him, whisking away the sweat and come, leaving him dry but chilled.

Almost the instant Harry shivered, the room manifested a large duvet, which Malfoy hauled over top of them. “Alright, Harry,” he said through a cracking yawn. The candles lowered obligingly, until they were in near-darkness. Harry wondered where his glasses had gone, but figured they had to be safe somewhere.

“Yeah,” he murmured back, snuggling down into the blanket and arranging his pillow until his neck stopped aching. His eyes were drifting shut when Draco’s arm draped over his torso and his chin rested on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Draco yawned again. The candles extinguished themselves. “I’m a dreadful cuddler, always have been. Best to get it arranged now so I don’t wake you in a few hours.”

“Not at all,” Harry replied. He’d never fallen asleep as quickly as he did with Draco Malfoy glued to his side.

The next morning, the lights in the room slowly increased until Harry drifted back awake. He stretched, relishing the burn in his muscles, the remnants of a _bloody_ great shag. Next to him, Draco groaned and tried to burrow under the duvet, but Harry cheerfully shoved it away.

“Fucking hell, you bloody tyrant,” Draco whined, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His hair was curling again, and Harry reached over to _sproing_ one of the wayward locks. Draco frowned deeply at him.

“You look cute when you’re crabby,” Harry said, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“Idiot,” Draco muttered, Summoning his clothes and wand over. “Look, I could eat a bloody centaur, but we need to check a few things, so do you think you could get that grin off your face and try to do something with this house? I can’t say I blame you, I know I’m good in bed, and Salazar knows you had precious few brains to get fucked out already, but I’d rather know right away if it didn’t work.”

Something twinged in Harry at that, but he called his own clothes and wand over, glad to discover his glasses came sailing over with the rest. After he was re-attired, he looked around. “Er. Not in here, surely…?”

Draco sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “No, you’re probably right. Let’s go back out into that dreadful parlour of yours; see if you can fix up the sofas. The one I had to sit on was a nightmare, and I’m sure yours was even worse.” He held a hand out for Harry, who took it to pull himself up and right into Draco’s space.

They stared at each other for a while, until Draco blushed furiously and looked at the floor. “Go on, then,” he muttered, gesturing at the door, and Harry smiled triumphantly before he headed back out into the receiving room.

When Draco followed behind, the door shut itself with a satisfied-sounding _clang,_ then disappeared into the wall. “Well, that’s a good sign,” Draco remarked, turning a slow circle and examining the room. “It seems a bit less grim in here, as well. Go ahead, do something with those sofas.”

Obediently, Harry pointed his wand at the settees along the wall of the room and thought. Almost instantly, the sagging sofas were replaced with plush, overstuffed loveseats, in a medium beige with contrasting teal throw pillows.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Impressive—and nowhere near as hideous as I’d expected them to be. Well, that’s the first test passed. Next...next, we have to confirm the, shall we say _long-term_ effects of the ritual. Unfortunately I’ll have to go back to the Manor and examine the family paperwork, but—”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted, suddenly loath to see Draco leave. “There’s a Black family tapestry up on the first floor, in the formal sitting room. You’re on there. Wouldn’t that—does it show, automatically, if something like this happens?”

Draco nodded slowly. “Yes, it should. Well, lead the way then, Harry.”

Harry brought them up the staircase, and soon they were standing outside the sitting room.

Abruptly, Harry was reluctant to open the door, to know for _sure_ that he was no longer tied to Draco. It was crazy, he knew, impulsive and rash and everything Hermione had ever accused him of being, but—the house was responding to him, wasn’t it? And Draco—something about Draco was _enchanting,_ now, and while the incredible rush of need triggered by the ritual was gone, Harry still felt a helpless desire to be close to him, to talk to him, to learn more about him. Would it be that bad if they were married, after all?

He met Draco’s eyes, and the conflicted emotions he saw in that grey gaze made him suck in a breath. Harry put his hand on the doorknob and glanced down before twisting it open—and was that silver light he saw, shining out from under the crack?

**Author's Note:**

> no, _you_ gave your fic a title from [that one john denver song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo).
> 
> my tumblr is [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bonesliketambourines)
> 
> * * *


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